Dreams
by Apple Senorita
Summary: The dreams of Sam and Dean, and what's happening around them as these dreams take place. Angsty. Not slash


AS: CORNY TO THE EXTREME! At least in my books anyway. But I was feeling incredibly angsty this evening, and I was listening to Goodbye To You by Michelle Branch, so I was bound to write something sad. Corny thought he-he.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy. This is the dreams of Sam and Dean at a particularly point in their lives, and what's _really_ going on around them. I was going to add a little bit at the end for extra corniness, but I decided not to. It would defeat the point that the whole sadness-theme revolved around though. If you want to find out what it was thought, just say in a review. It was only a couple of words.

Enjoy.

* * *

"Sammy?"

Dean paused, waiting for the flicker of recognition of flutter about Sam's face. For him to ease out of unconsciousness, open his eyes and reply: 'Dean?'

But Sam remained still. His chest rose and fell gently, his long limbs relaxed and bandaged on the white hospital bed.

"Sam? You gonna wake up?"

Nothing. Dean dropped his chin to his chest. He looked completely lost for a second or two, his eyes unnaturally glazed and emotionless. The muscles in his jaw worked as he gritted his teeth, and lifted his head quickly.  
"You're going to be Ok…aren't you Sammy? You're going to wake up and bug me just like the little brother you are? 'Cos I tell you Sam…" Dean clenched his hands that were clutched fiercely together between his knees, and shuffled forward a little. He lowered his voice, as if Sam and he were in a crowded room of people to laugh at Dean's true feelings, "I don't think I can do much without you around. You're my baby brother,"

Dean sniffed heavily and rubbed his forehead, fixing his stare to the edge of the bed. He didn't know what to do with himself. His Dad was God-knows-where, his brother was the most lifeless Dean had ever had to see him, and he was drifting in a haze that was like driving at night in heavy fog. Dean shuffled his chair closer, to get a better look at Sam from behind the white snakes of tubes and IV lines. He wanted Sam to wake up and give him one of those glares that made him look about five years old. He wanted to say something that was fussy so that Sam could give him a look that was so much of a pout it reminded Dean of when he was younger.

Dean wished, ruefully, that he could call his brother innocent. But him and his brother had seen way too much to call themselves innocent. Still…nevertheless…sometimes Sam was so still, so peaceful, so content - like when they were driving through the dark and they were both trying to keep each other awake in the density of the night - that Dean could see the small baby Sam was that night, before their mother's death. And even though that was the only time, when Sam was a small baby, that Dean could ever say Sam was truly innocent, he saw it in his face countless times. Now though, he wasn't sure what he saw on Sam's face.

Tight lines formed around Sam's eyes as pain pierced through his sleep, and the muscles under the tanned skin of his wrists twitched as his fingers moved.  
"Hey Sam, it's Ok," Dean said. He unravelled one hand from the other and pushed Sam's bangs away from his forehead, "It's alright,"

He missed the way his brother would smack out at his chest or arm for calling him Sammy, or purposefully fling his tapes around whilst they were cleaning the Chevy out in the hopes he might break one of his most hated ones. He missed the way Sam would put his feet up on the dashboard, his arms around his knees, and settle down to sleep, so that he looked like a koala bear hanging from a tree. He tried to say something but his father's voice floated in his head like an intruding force, loud and clear and the gentlest Dean had ever heard: you'll be Ok, it'll be alright Dean. Dean swallowed heavily and pushed out a small smile.

"It'll be alright Sammy,"

………

"Dean?"

Sam shuffled in his seat, noticing how uneven his breathing was. His stomach had crumpled in on itself, and it felt like someone was beating it with a wooden rolling pin. He hung his head, looking at the swabbed-clean floor beneath him.

"You're gonna be Ok, alright Dean?" he gave a rough smile that looked a lot more like his father's than it did his own, "'Cos if you don't I'm gonna kill you,"

Dean didn't flinch at the words. Nor did he smirk and swat Sam around the head saying: 'aw shut up worrying Sammy. Anyway, you couldn't get a hand on me,'. He stayed perfectly still, head back against the pillows and face relaxed and statue-still.

"Dean….Dean I need you to wake up,"

Nothing, "You've got to Dean. 'Cause…" he looked down at his shoes, and let out a short, soft laugh, "Dean, you're my big brother. I need you to be here,"  
The heart-monitor skipped a beat and Sam's body froze. He stood up awkwardly, not sure what to do. He watched the blipping, pulsating screen as it calmed down. He thought, oddly, how strange it was to be looking at what Dean's heart was doing on a screen. That all of these small, steady bleeps, were actually representations of what Dean's human heart was doing inside his chest. Sam looked back at his brother. He looked younger than he usually did, smaller too. His presence wasn't right without his ragged jeans and his cocky smile and his strong arm to sling around Sam's shoulders. Without his strong, soft voice to call him Sammy and his taste in music to drive Sam mad when he had a headache.

"Dean,"

Sam bit his lip and tried to think of something more constructive to say. And the thought of a vague memory…at least he _thought_ it was a memory, was pushed life-like and real into his clouded head. His father's voice: you'll be Ok Sammy.

"You'll be Ok Dean," Sam said, deciding not to ask where the idea had come from.

No reply, but instead a flicker of crushing pain on Dean's face. His head tilted back a little, and Sam's hands were holding Dean's right one and he was leant over his brother's unnaturally pale face and saying: 'Hey, Dean, it's Ok, it's Ok,'

* * *

John stared tiredly at the two boy's in their beds. Both faces were equally still, equally void. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to smooth out his breathing. The tubes and IVs and beeping of the machines all blurred into white, and all that John could see was his two boys. He knew he should probably talk to them. Tell Sam how much he looked like his mother, with his soft features and his fine hair. Tell Dean that he too had his mother's gentle eyes, despite getting most of his looks from himself. He wanted to tell his boys they were two amazing sons, and that he was so proud of them. He wanted to be able to look into Sam's eyes and not see Sam throw up a guard that he thought masked everything. It never did though. John could always see behind his son's façade, see the longing for a truce, see the wish that they could both be happy with each other, see the fact that Sam really did love his Dad.

"You should talk to them you know,"

John gave a small smile, "Yeah. I know," his voice sounded gruff and deep from lack of use.

"They could probably hear you, you know. If you did talk to them. It's a pity that they haven't got each other to talk to The more voices they hear that they recognise, the nicer it is for them,"  
John let the advise hang in the air. He folded his arms, "Do you dream when you're in a coma?"  
"Oh, almost constantly,"  
"Dream bad things? Or good things/"

The nurse folded the spare sheets and said, looking down at her job, "I suppose it depends. You could have a bit of both, or just nightmares. Or just sweet dreams. It really does depend, I think. You can never tell from looking at them, you see,"  
"Yeah,"

John could rarely ever see what went on in his sons' heads whilst they were standing in full health and wide awake in front of him. Nevermind now.

"They could be dreaming about their family, or their past, or strange dreams like you have when you sleep. Why?"  
"Just wondering,"

Dean had told him about Sam's nightmares. He didn't want Sam to have nightmares now. The nurse bustled out, and John stood from his chair. He made his way between the beds, and didn't know which way to look. His boys were lying in two separate hospital beds. He couldn't even be with them both at the same time. But one of the saddest things was, was that they couldn't be each other. The pair of them were the best remedy for any problem the other had. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. This was his fault. All his fault. How could he explain that, how could he ask for forgiveness?

The darkness of time settle in, quiet and blank, until Dean's heart monitor picked up. Sam's face tightened and his own machine went the same way.

"Dean? Sam?"

* * *

Dean reached his other hand up and held Sam's arm.  
"Sam? It's Ok, come on kiddo,"

Sam stiffened, his muscles tightening under his skin.  
"Sam?"  
A small 'ah' noise made it's way from Sam's mouth, open in a mute scream.

"Nurse! Hey, I need a doctor. Nurse!"

Sam went slack and still in Dean's grip, and Dean snapped his head around to search his brother's face.

"No. Sam. Sammy no, what's happening, what's wrong? Sam wake up!"

Footsteps pattered down the corridor, too far away. They were never going to come. They were stuck on a belt that took them round and round but never forward to where Dean needed them.

"Sammy no," Dean buckled in pain, felt his heart get tighter and tighter. Dammit, it hurt.  
"Sam, Sam wake up,"

Sam's head jerked to one side, but his baby bother remained eerily still. The heart monitor went right, it doubled, quadrupled in time. It sounded like there were two heart monitors now, ringing away in Dean's head. He groaned in pain, desperately fighting it to remain standing.

"No, Sammy, I can't lose you, Sam…"

…

Sam held onto Dean tighter, leaning closer to Dean, the heart monitor like a nightmare crashing in his ears.

"Dean? Dean what's wrong? Dean, wake up," he gabbled, blinking away the hair in his eyes, "Nurse! Nurse, I need help! Hey, I need a doctor!"  
He stabbed the help button repeatedly. Shouts rang far off, cries of: what's going on? But no-one was in the room with him. Where were the helping hands, why weren't they helping his brother?

"Dean, Dean, please. No. Dean wake up, come on, come on Dean you've got wake up, I need you to wake up. Dean,"

His heart bucked wildly in his chest, his head a hot mess of pain that sent his neck muscles wild.

"Ah!" his head jerked to the side and he gripped harder onto Dean. He forced his pain back and hung tighter to Dean.

"Dean. Please. Dean what's going on?"

Dean was still now, and Sam felt his head and chest turn to liquid. He was still too. He stared down at his older brother's face. His saviour, his hero, his big brother.

"Dean. Please, you can't. Dean,"

* * *

John's hands were clammy, his heart was pounding and his head was hot and flushed. Dean's heart-monitor was quickening, Sam's breathing was a raking in his ears.

"Nurse! Nurse!"

He lunged at the help button but there were already footsteps in the room. Figures pushing past him, nudging him to the side, hands on his sons' chests and faces. Words he couldn't understand, his body numb and flaring all at once.

"What's happening? What's going on?"

Different questions came out of his mouth but one thing soared around his head: I can't lose them, I can't lose them, I can't lose them. Not his sons, not his strong, precious boys. He couldn't lose them. The Winchesters couldn't break up like that.

* * *

"We did everything we could. They just crashed. Sam first…and then Dean. Their bodies were too young to survive such injuries. We're so sorry," the nurse tried to find some recognition of what she was saying on John's face. "They wouldn't have felt anything," she added softly, putting a hand gently on his arm, "They would have been peaceful. Dreaming,"

John nodded automatically. He tried to keep the silence but he couldn't hold it back. He sobbed, "I lost them,"

The nurse felt defeated for a moment. She knew it was completely normal to feel like this when comforting someone when death was concerned, but usually there was something good in it all. She tried to find something to say, but she couldn't. She just gave a little nod, and waited as John sobbed into his hands.

* * *


End file.
